


Pretty like hell

by rosieposie77



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cocaine, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sherlock, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Introspection, M/M, Sad Ending, Sad Sherlock, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sherlock in Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosieposie77/pseuds/rosieposie77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers 3x02</p>
<p>After John's wedding, all is left to Sherlock is a bottle of cocaine. And maybe an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty like hell

_Am I pretty?_

 

His voice echoes in your head as if your bones and skin were suddenly become thin like holy bread. Or as if you’re still drunk from that day.

 

 

Maybe you are.

 

 

Maybe you’re still sinking. Sinking, sinking, sinking ...

 

 

 

-What is it? The atomic number of hydrogen? Why does my Mind Palace not work as expected anymore?

 

 

‘Cause you still have your mind chained to his stupid voice, that stupid expression on his face, that stupid game you were playing that night. To his hand that was not so stupid when it touched your knee and then withdrew, ashamed of herself. As if he wondered, at the exact moment in which he had placed his hand on your spread-open legs, if that was really what he wanted.

 

 

_I do not mind ..._

 

Who did say this? You? John? Both? You still have fuzzy memories in your head: he leans towards you, you lean back, the both of you who seem to be just one. You're still sinking in those memories. Sinking, sinking, sinking ...

 

 

-Stupid, boring chemical defect called love!

 

 

Memories are so confused that you would not be amazed to know that you were so drunk to have kissed him. You would not be amazed, because John seemed to contemplate you as if the sun would rise and set around you. But you did not kiss him, that for sure.

 

 

 

-Sorry, John Watson is not at home. He will never be here again. If you want to speak to him, try at his new address. Pardon? What’s his new address? He has not bothered to say it.

 

You’re pretty sure you did not kiss him because otherwise you would have opened up a whole new file on that craved kiss! An entirely new file to safekeep with jealously between the Madonna’s file and The Woman’s one. There, you’d describe the emotions you felt, you’d narrate about the flavor of his lips: thin, chapped, wet... You would raise praises to his tongue, which surely you would have cherished over and over again with your own. And you would do it every day, every fucking day till you’d die, describing each time in a new page what that kiss has left in your heart and soul. In order to be sure you do not ever, never forget it.

 

 

-The atomic number of hydrogen! The atomic number of hydrogen!

 

 

And then maybe, at the bottom of each page you’d take note of a number, counting as days go by: 1459, 1460 ... 1461 days since I fell in love with John Watson.

 

 

-Where is it? Where is that bottle?

 

 

You did not remember so well the scent of the neat morocco case, did you? At first, the feeling of your fingers coming into contact with the syringe after so long is a bit disturbing, but then it almost seems to meet an old friend when you tuck your left sleeve up. A friend ...

 

 

_I do not have friends. I just got one._

 

Liar! You were a liar. John was not the first, right? Memories of a distant past suddenly attack you, while in front of your eyes you get a faded glimpse of two young students sitting next to each other, thrusting the sharp point of their syringes into one’s own flesh and pressing the tiny pistons. You still remember well, too well, the sigh of satisfaction on Victor’s face every time.

 

 

-John is not here. He is taking part at the Olympics of Sex. Pardon, his  honeymoon ...

 

 

 

Your eyes slide towards a small picture hanging above the fireplace. It's always been there in all these years. A small relic of your first love, kept in plain sight. If you want to hide something, put it under everyone’s eye Victor used to say. And now, now it would be so damn easy to get up, turn that picture around and read the phone number written behind the canvas. Or maybe not, you do not really need it, because you've never really forgotten Vic’s number.

 

 

Who knows, maybe tomorrow you'll really do it...

 

 

Because now, when you press the plunger and loneliness consumes your soul, all that's left is the warm and surreal John’s voice that flows into your veins.

 

 

_Am I pretty?_

_Yes, you are lovely_

 

Lovely as a burning hell...


End file.
